The officer’s short-sword followed, fitting the strap which had held his axe. Then Mark fastened on the proffered holster and put the gun in it. A careful check revealed the fact that except for several inches of superior height, he now looked approximately as the cop had looked a minute before.
Passersby might have wondered momentarily at the exchange, but so hectic were the times, with all their fevered preparation for war, that anything might have a logical explanation. There was certainly nothing indicating an unfriendly attitude between the two men.
And in a minute the shorter man said a cheerful goodbye to the taller one, and ambled off down the street. An observer couldn’t possibly guess that the taller of the two had just given an hypnotic command for the shorter one to forget the whole matter and go about his business.
Nor could it be guessed that the shorter man would soon miss his weapons and blame the theft on a practical joke of one of his associates. Nor that he would quietly filch a new set of equipment from the police armory, and keep the incident to himself.
MARK strode off in an opposite direction, feeling for the moment quite pleased with himself. That, however, lasted for only a block or so. Then his mind became filled with the problem of what to do with Detroit. And that turned out to be quite a problem.
He attacked it from several angles.
His final idea on the subject was that he’d better not try to formulate a plan of action until he had learned a few more things about the setup in Detroit. He knew where to gain the information, but he’d have to wait a few hours.
The sun was still visible in the western sky and darkness was necessary before he could act. In the meantime he’d observe as much as possible about the people of the city, and perhaps get a better idea of the things he would have to do to cope with the inevitable economic strife which would result from the abandonment of the war.
His footsteps led him toward the edge of the city; toward that narrow belt which furnished all the growing things needed by its population.
There was a tavern near one of the growth stations. He mingled with some of the workers who were washing down the dust accumulated during the day’s work. One of them, who seemed to be well supplied with currency, was glad to foot the bill for Mark’s drinks, under the impression that he was an old friend.
Mark used hypnotism to accomplish this end, for two very good reasons. One was that men were a bit more garrulous when in their cups; and another was that he had none of the type of money accepted as legal tender in Detroit.
In the tavern he learned about the ill effects of the growth ray. Two of the men present were continually annoyed by trouble with their “innards,” and complained bitterly that they would be able to work several more hours a day if it weren’t for the leakage in the vibration machine which was causing the mysterious malady.
But neither held any resentment because his work was slowly killing him. The only complaint was that it kept him away from the machine he loved.
Mark went out of the place fuming, and vowing that something would be done about it, but soon.
He noticed that the sun was gone and the sky was getting darker in the west. Accordingly he set out in a direction calculated to bring him closer to the palace. He had some business to conduct there, but he wanted the night to be well advanced when he arrived. He walked slowly.
For a few blocks Mark’s new direction carried him along busy streets, thronged with homeward-bound workers. Detroit was like any large city of his own era, in spite of the peculiarities which made it, unhappily, unique. There were stores, taprooms and amusement houses; congestion, squalor and well-kept parks; in short, everything which went to make up a busy metropolis.
Old, familiar things.
Mark felt himself becoming homesick, but not quite the same way he had felt when he had first looked down on the city from the heights. Now he felt as if he were returning to something he had considered lost, forever.
Hazy ideas were forming in his brain as he watched the hectic activity of the people about him. These were the same sort of people who had inhabited twentieth-century New York, Philadelphia and Chicago. Once delivered from the regimented mental processes imposed by Vargo, they would represent a nucleus which could grow and gradually fill the entire land. America as it was in his own day!
SO ENGROSSED had Mark become in his thoughts that he failed to notice, except vaguely, that the street he was following was less imposing than the main thoroughfare it had been a while before.
Almost aimlessly, as he waited for the night to grow older, he had wandered on beyond the factory and shopping areas and was now in a section of the city which could have stood a good deal of improvement. Squalid tenements now lined the street, few of them lighted with electricity. Oil lamps, here and there, were dimly lighting unwashed windows.
Mark’s first knowledge that he had walked out of the more modern portion of the city came with a fetid odor of decaying garbage from a nearby alleyway. Abruptly his brain became conscious of the things that his eyes had been seeing for some time. He frowned, and glanced toward the offending alleyway, which was now only a few feet distant.
The frown changed to sudden astonishment. Standing in the shadow of the opening was a man, pointing an automatic directly at his stomach!
He was a strongly-built young man, dressed as scantily as Mark himself, and was wearing a faintly amused smile. His eyes seemed to twinkle merrily, and that was probably what deterred Mark from instantly driving at him all the power of his hypnosis wave. The man, obviously, had watched him approach and hadn’t used his gun. Therefore he didn’t intend to use it. Mark was curious, and curiosity had led him into trouble on more than one occasion.
He stopped and waited.
“You certainly were wool-gathering,” the man remarked, conversationally. “That’s bad in this neighborhood. What’s in the pouch?”
Mark grinned, quite pleased. “An old-fashioned holdup! I’m beginning to like this town. Though I can’t see how you figure into Vargo’s setup. Don’t tell me that you’re selflessly devoted to being a footpad.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and the amused look was replaced with one that didn’t augur well for anyone who opposed him. “It’s my life’s work,” he replied evenly. “But not because I wish it. Vargo’s little Vocation Board made a mistake. But don’t try to talk yourself out of anything. I’ve been in business too long for that. What’s in the pouch?”
“Wings,” stated Mark. “They go on my hat. I fly with them when I’m in a hurry.”
“Interesting. Move your hands slowly and don’t go near that gun. Let’s see the wings.”
Mark did as he was told, removing the wings from the pouch. He showed the holdup artist how they fitted in his helmet. “Made of iron,” he said. “They aren’t valuable.”
“Except for flying, eh?”
Before the man could fire a shot, Mark lifted vertically into the air and sailed over the roof of the building next to the alley. He descended farther back in the alleyway, and swooped down behind the holdup man, pinioning his arms.
In an instant he had disarmed him.
“I don’t like people to point guns at me,” he said. “What’s your name? And get your chin up off your chest. You look like a fish.”
The man clicked his jaws shut and recovered from his astonishment in record time. “That was hypnotism,” he deduced. “One of Vargo’s boys, eh?”
IT WAS Mark’s turn to be astonished. Here was a citizen, it seemed, who knew what was going on. Dodd, he remembered, had suspected but wasn’t certain. This man knew.
Mark shook his head.
“No,” he said. “That wasn’t hypnotism. I really flew. And I’m not one of Vargo’s boys, as he would be only too glad to tell you. I’m Mark Nevin. I’m a stranger here myself. And no friend of Vargo’s. Who are you?”
“Just a thief. Tolon by name,” answered the man, suspiciously. “But don’t tell me you flew. I know hypnotism when I see it.”
Mark scratched his chin and regarded Tolon thoughtfully. He was looking at a rugged, cleanly-chiseled face, not at all the criminal type — if there was such a thing. Tall, almost as tall as himself, the man reminded him of pictures he had seen of the American frontiersman of colonial days. Fine lines at the corners of the eyes spoke of time spent out in the open, as did a tan which almost matched Mark’s own. Slightly uptilted lips indicated that his present grim and suspicious expression was not his usual one. Mark decided he liked Tolon, thief or not.
On impulse he handed back the gun, butt foremost.
“Where can we talk?” he asked. “I’m a stranger here, and I want to learn a few things.”
Tolon took the pistol, looked at it as if unable to credit his senses, then seemed to make a decision. He beckoned a hand and moved off down the street. Mark followed quickly after.
The way led through a dimly lit section of winding, narrow streets and odorous alleys. It was an older portion of the city, one which would have been impenetrable to the modern trucks which sailed along the wider streets. The journey ended as abruptly as it had begun, when Tolon vanished quickly into a dark areaway beside a dark, three-story, stone tenement. Mark was right on his heels as he ducked into a shadowed doorway.
Tolon stopped in a vestibule until Mark had closed the outer door. Then he opened the inner one. Surprisingly the room within was well lighted. Mark blinked his eyes and tried to get them adjusted to the brilliance. After a minute or two he was able to see. He hadn’t moved from his position at the door, for he had instantly sensed that the room was full of men. Tolon had moved quickly away from him, and was now facing him with the others. There were five strangers, all seated, and all covering him with pistols!
Mark appraised them carefully, not saying a word. The men looked him over just as carefully. They were a grim lot, and looked like tough customers. None of them appeared inherently vicious; they looked intelligent, not like criminals at all. Yet he could only assume that he had fallen into a den of thieves.
Tolon had been quite frank about admitting that he was on the wrong side of the law.
“What have we here, Tolon?” asked the man on the extreme right, without taking his eyes or his gun from Mark. He spoke quietly, a soft, assured voice which bespoke confidence and knowledge of his own power. Mark could see that the assurance was well founded, for the man was stocky, and muscular in a dynamic way which indicated both strength and agility. His level eyes revealed an intelligence which was in no way subnormal.
“I don’t know, Ira,” confessed Tolon. “But it’s worth looking into.”
HE RELATED the encounter, describing the illusion of flying which he said Mark impressed hypnotically on his mind. He mentioned that Mark had said he was a stranger and wanted to learn something; also that he had returned his gun.
“But you’re suspicious,” added Ira. “Why? Would one of Vargo’s men hand you back a gun to shoot him with?”
“It’s possible,” defended Tolon. “Vargo’s agents are resourceful. He may have wanted me to lead him to the rest of our bunch.”
“Which, of course, you did,” said Ira. “Has it occurred to you, my dear Tolon, that if the man hypnotized you so easily, then he must be a good deal better than Vargo?”
Tolon nodded, puzzled. “I thought of that,” he confessed. “But if he didn’t, then I must accept the fact that he flew. I couldn’t take any chances. He was too close to home.”
Ira nodded, and regarded Mark at length. The others held their peace.
“That’s right,” said Ira, finally. “We can’t take any chances. If he’s one of Vargo’s men, it would be better if he were a corpse. You’re sure you haven’t had any giggle-water?”
“One drink,” said Tolon, smiling.
“Then, my fine fellow, the man either flew or he’s a much better hypnotist than Vargo. The name’s Mark, isn’t it? Can you help us out, or would you rather we made our minds up without your help?”
Mark grinned. “I’d rather help,” he said, rising about a foot off the floor, and hovering there nonchalantly.
Ira’s eyebrows raised perceptibly, but he showed no other sign of surprise. The others, however, gasped audibly. Ira rose from his chair and moved around toward Mark’s side, being careful not to block the guns of the others. Then he quickly passed a hand beneath Mark’s feet, touching them lightly on the soles. He muttered briefly and returned to his seat.
“I’m not so sure that this proves anything, except that the man really can fly,” Ira pondered. “If anything it indicates that the man is an agent of Vargo’s. This stunt could be something new which the Ancestors have developed.”
Mark decided that things were going too slowly. He had some business to attend to this evening, and it was nearly time to start. With an abrupt effort of will he threw at them all the power of his hypnosis wave. For a second he felt a vague resistance, then the men froze into immobility. Their guns were still pointed at Mark’s middle, but he knew they were harmless. He strode to Ira and gently removed the finger which was locked in position over the trigger. Then he took the gun and placed it on a table across the room. He repeated the operation with each of them, until there was a pile on the table.
“I’m your friend,” he told them. “In the future you will obey any order I choose to give. You will know that I work for your own good. But you will remember nothing of what I have just said.”
MARK released them from his hypnotic influence, watching them carefully as he did so. Their reactions were alike as they regained their senses and realized that they no longer held their guns. They looked at Mark dumbly and wonderingly as he returned the weapons, giving each man the one which he had taken from him. Each placed his automatic in its holster. There was no hesitation about the latter act.
“I see you all catch the point, gentlemen,” Mark observed. “If I had wished, you would all be dead, or on your way to Vargo’s prison. The fact that you’re not proves that I’m no agent of Vargo’s. My hypnotic ability — so much greater than his — is the reason why Vargo wants me killed. Now, Tolon, suppose you tell me what you meant by saying that in your case the Vocation Board made a mistake.”
“It’s the same with all of us,” Tolon explained. “I completed my schooling and then went to the Vocation Board to be examined. I was placed in a room full of little-mirrors which revolved and reflected light from an electric bulb. A man asked me some questions about my past. I answered, giving all the details. He talked to me in a soft voice, telling me what a great guy Vargo was, and what a great destiny awaited the people of Detroit. Then he told me I was getting drowsy, and to rest my eyes by watching one of the revolving mirrors.
“I was only a kid at the time, with a certain respect for my elders, and obeyed him. I watched one of the mirrors — but I wasn’t drowsy, and I didn’t get drowsy. He talked some more on the same subject of Vargo and the great destiny of Detroit — how some day we would march forth and conquer the world, spreading our great civilization and giving its benefits to the benighted peoples of other cities. He also kept telling me that I was going to sleep, so I dropped my eyes, not wanting to make him out a liar.
“Then suddenly he must have decided I had dropped off, for he quit talking for a while. Then he said: ‘You will obey implicitly. Your mind belongs to Vargo. Isn’t that so?’ I kidded him along. ‘My mind belongs to Vargo,’ I said. Then he told me to wait for further orders, and left me sitting there. I stretched and walked around the room, until I heard someone coming. Then I got back in the chair and stared at the wall.
“The man came in and with him was Vargo. ‘He is acquiescent,’ the guy told Vargo. ‘Should make a good guard. We need a few more.’ Then Vargo went to work. He sat in front of me and looked into my eyes. Right then I pretty near did go to sleep. Something hit my brain like a sledgehammer, and kept hitting. And all the time Vargo talked.
“He told me that I was admirably suited to be a caravan guard. That I was to obey orders and always reali
ze that he, Vargo, was the greatest ruler on earth — kind, benevolent, and compassionate. I must always remember that his orders were not to be questioned, for they were for my own good and for the good of civilization.”
MARK winced. Those lines sounded familiar. He consoled himself with the thought that he really meant it. “I see,” he interrupted. “The first man was to soften you up for Vargo. With so many to take care, of, Vargo trained men to help him, to save him own strength. In your case they made a mistake. You must have a natural resistance against hypnotism, or you wouldn’t be able to remember anything. They told you to forget, didn’t they?”
“Vargo told me,” said Tolon. “He said to forget that I had ever seen him, but remember that he was my friend and always to be obeyed. I answered the way I figured he wanted me to. I really believed what he said.”
“But you began to think, later. Tell me about it.”
“I was turned over to the trainers, who taught me to be a good guard, proficient with the sword and bow. I was also taught to shoot, but told never to mention guns on my travels to other cities. Nor was I ever to mention the other things which the people of Detroit accepted as commonplace, but which were unknown to the rest of the world; electricity, automobiles and the rest of our scientific progress. These were to be saved until the day of the conquest. Then they were to be given to the rest of the world.
“Later, long after I entered service as a caravan guard, I began to see the reason for all that. Guns and motor cars would give us a tremendous advantage over people who knew nothing about them, and had no defense against them. That started me thinking. If Vargo was so big-hearted and really wanted to improve the rest of the world, why didn’t he give them electricity and all the other things? You don’t have to kill somebody when you want to make a gift.
“I began to picture what would happen in some of the cities I visited. Innocent people, without any malice toward anybody, were going to be slaughtered. And a lot of our own people as well. And in most of the cities we do commerce with, there is no need for it at all.
The Best of Argosy #7 - Minions of Mercury Page 8
